Tafn
Loki does nothing.
That is what stuns Thor initially. He'd been expecting his brother to either return the kiss with a show of mocking ardour, or to bite out the man's tongue.
He does nothing. His expression doesn't change at all, eyes still staring dully at the man's face as he pulls away.
"Perfect," says their enemy. "Sigmund, the scissors, if you would."
As Thor watches, as useless as a dead fly stuck to a window, they cut his hair off, inexpertly, leaving him half shorn. Loki seems to have the energy to hold himself upright but to do nothing more, and when he does rally and raise a weak hand to brush them away, the grey man puts his hands on his skull, rocking his head back and forth while murmuring shushing noises until he subsides again. With the trickster god's head resting upon his shoulder, nose tip brushing the tattoo, the grey man nods to his associates, who help him to begin stripping Thor's brother.
Thor begins to yell, and continues to yell until three of the men behind him force a gag over his mouth.
Now almost entirely bare, boots gone, chest exposed, Loki leans back into the arms of one of the thugs while the grey man administers experimental caresses to his dark nipples. Hairless and with ecstasy glowing softly on his face, he looks entirely too pure a thing for the four brutes clustered about him.
Thor sickens as he remembers where he last saw his brother wearing that expression. Not since they were children, and Frigga combed their hair before bedtime. Loki adored these grooming rituals as much as Thor despised them, and once his mother placed the comb into his freshly-washed hair, the same docile, deeply contented half-smile that he wears now would appear.
Thor works very hard to push his mother from his mind. She does not belong in this place.
The grey man strokes his brother's cock though his clothing, before baring it. His motions are repetitive, calculated, and Loki gives a soft mewling sound.
This is not his brother. Loki Odinson does not mewl.
"Join me," the grey man murmurs.
They do. Immediately. One of them is already clearly erect, which is hardly surprising. The grey man may loathe them far too much to feel anything more than satisfaction at the atrocity he is committing, but the rest of them are only human, and Loki is undeniably beautiful with his limbs splayed out and his eyes wandering vaguely about the room as their captor makes him harden in his hand.
There is a thin, glistening line of drool running down his chin.
Loki's arms come up, and for a moment Thor is seized by hope, until he watches those arms slide over the grey man's shoulders, where they exhaust what little energy they had, and fall limp again, leaving him half-embracing the man who now turns his attentions to his long, white back.
The men paw Loki's stomach and legs, rub hands up his thighs as he moans. One works a finger into his mouth, which he suckles eagerly, while another pushes his knees apart and another spreads his buttocks.
Thor closes his eyes, but cannot keep them closed. They open, shut, open, shut, a parade of nightmares before him whenever he steadies himself to peak.
Open.
Loki sighs feebly, and pushes back against one of their cocks.
Shut. Open.
Another of them leaves a deep love bite on his brother's neck.
Shut. Open.
His brother comes, in thick spurts over the grey man's suit. The grey man casually slaps him for it, which does nothing to draw him from his torpor, and a minute's casual rubbing later he is hard again.
The room stinks of sex.
The nausea in Thor's gut becomes so intense that he wonders if vomiting with the gag on might drown him.
This is not his brother.
Finally, the grey man rubs his chin, thoughtfully. "Put him on the false Thunderer's lap," he says.
Thor's wrists, by now, are red and bleeding from pulling at the chains, but he tries again regardless.
One man scoops the mischief-maker up and four take their place at Thor's sides, hands on his shoulders, holding him in place.
His brother weighs as much as a child. Thor cannot talk with the gag, but he thrashes his head and bucks like a wild horse, knocking Loki from his lap. They simply pick him up again and put him back.
"Loki," says the grey man, not far away- Thor cannot see him, Thor can only see Loki's eyelashes as they push the two gods together like children trying to make their dolls have sex. "This is your brother. He's very upset right now. Why don't you make him feel better?"
"Mmmph," hums Loki, nuzzling Thor's chin like a kitten. He is so hard against Thor's stomach that all Thor would have to do to make him come would be to push back against him, touch him just once.
It takes six hands to hold Thor's head in place. But that is not what does it.
One of the men is now working on removing Thor's clothes, but that is not what does it.
What does it is the moment when Loki reaches up and touches a lock of his hair, the drugged delirium briefly draining away to be replaced by something else, something very sad.
"Thor, kiss me?" Loki begs, meek and pleading.
The chains snap and the collar on Thor's neck explodes.